


Peace of Mind

by oponn



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Crypts of Winterfell, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Post-Season/Series Finale, Rebellion, Sandor Stays Dead, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Siege of Winterfell, Sieges, battle strategy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27475207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oponn/pseuds/oponn
Summary: Sansa Stark is Queen in the North.The whispers dub her the Savage Queen, despite her attempts to rule with her heart. Many years into her reign, one of Sansa's Lords stages a rebellion that brings a small army to her walls. Before Winterfell can react, the camp outside builds a trebuchet tower that threatens the existence of Winterfell itself if Sansa doesn't bow to their demands. Within days, she's running out of time, help and options. In her darkest hour, she uses a long-forgotten tincture to commune with what she assumes are the Old Gods and instead treats with a long dead man whom she'd accepted as her one chance at love.Armed with determination and his advice, Queen Sansa Stark faces down one of her biggest enemies - her future.
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 80





	1. The Banded Chest

The air was heavy with the rage of the storm. 

Rain coursed heavily down the leaded glass windows, thunder rumbling so loudly it could be felt through the stone walls of Winterfell. 

Lightning forked across the sky, illuminating the still form of Queen Sansa Stark as she stood at the windows with a grave face and stared out. Her ice blue eyes surveyed the glow and flicker of the fires and torches in the sprawling camp that had gathered outside the walls in the last two days. 

Her arms were encased in black and her gown echoed the somber mood. It was the deepest of grays, matching the clouds outside, and had a decidedly gold sheen to it. The top buttons of the gown had been undone and exposed her throat, her circlet long since thrown carelessly on her bed and she’d used yanking fingers to pull her red hair out of its ornate plait during her frenzied pacing of the room. 

Now, with her hair falling around her shoulders and her arms crossed, she glared out at the soggy soldiers and ground her molars. They would attempt to siege her, draw her out. 

Sansa was frustrated; they’d been goosed and had been caught completely off guard. 

Exactly what Daryn Glover undoubtedly planned on when he’d amassed this force to attack her; Sansa was by now a well-known tactician and had won more than a few battles in the years since she’d become Queen. She was aware those who weren’t under her rule or not particularly fond of her had given her a moniker that ran rampant with the smallfolk – they called her Sansa the Savage. 

The Savage Queen, so on and so forth. 

Despite such a nickname from her enemies, it apparently had done little to dissuade the contentious and entitled Glover heir. When the army had shown up it had been overnight – the morning had dawned with panic as they discovered tents flying war sigils outside. Sansa was roused and a messenger was decided. The messenger rode out just before mid-day to discuss reasons and terms with the leaders of this new army. His body had returned strapped to his horse, with a rope tied to the pommel. As the horse had trotted through the main gate, the rope tied to the saddle had trailed behind it attached to the messenger’s head. 

The castle had closed down and guards assumed their posts. The portcullis had been lowered, sealed while the blacksmith and two volunteers had kicked into high gear churning out weapons and arrows. They had sent ravens far and wide within the same day – asking for help or backup but Sansa and two of her four advisors believed that help was not an option. 

Not only was the army outside comprised largely of Northern houses that would be the ones to respond to Winterfell’s calls for aide, the Vale was too far and the Reach was still too underpopulated to prove useful. This was entirely a Northern skirmish, in-fighting based on ambitious lesser Lords who had decided they were free long enough from the Iron Throne. This ambition had made it appealing to seek to overthrow the Stark who’d won them that freedom. 

The Stark known to most as a savage. 

Sansa spent days pacing the castle, restless and angry. She prowled the parapets, glaring down at the camps and sneering when arrows would pepper the walls below where she stood. At night, she sat in the solar with her advisors and they argued at length about their options. 

She counted the fighting men, the young men, the women and the children. They did the math to calculate how long they had under siege – far less time than they’d thought. When they normally had two months' worth of food stored, the recent harvests had been scant and Sansa had made the decision to let farmers keep more of their stock to provide for their own families. They had been sitting at two weeks supply and that steadily dwindled with every passing day. 

Three days after the appearance of the army, they woke to a large wooden structure being built in the middle of the siege camp. It was tall and unfinished, appearing to reach towards the sky and jockey for height with the tops of Winterfell’s walls. It would be done within the week. 

Sansa had spent four hours in the solar, red in the face as she argued with her advisors and loyal Lords. The talks had gone ‘round and ‘round in circles, with no definitive answer or defense strategy procured. No one had any novel ideas, none of the men were set on doing anything but attempting to wait them out. The usual boiling water, lard, ladder pushers, fire arrows were all bandied about. Spiriting many of the women and children away in the dead of night to prolong food stores had also been discussed but no real new tactics had come to light. Sansa herself was running out of ideas, tricks and traps and had never been besieged before. 

Personally, she was enraged. Not only was the betrayal deep but the surprise had caught her completely off guard, a tactic that hadn’t been successful in years. How had she not anticipated such actions from such an obviously impudent child? Admittedly, she’d assumed the Glover boy would slink back to Deepwood Motte and lick his wounds after being denied the hand of Tash Manderly, great-granddaughter of Wyman. 

Years before when Tash had been an infant, Sansa had agreed to terms between the Manderlys and the Cerwyns – a marriage of Tash and the then new Cerwyn boy, Rohald. 

Given that the betrothed were enamored with one another and the marriage had been agreed upon by Sansa and both of the Houses’ Lords, the betrothal was unbreakable. This had been unacceptable to the new Lord Glover, who rode high on his horse as the last of the ‘original blood of Deepwood Motte’. 

Unsatisfied with the ideas of her advisors and not assuaged by the predictions and pontifications of the Lords, Sansa had excused herself and stalked back to her rooms. Her maids had long been dismissed for the night and there was no one to undress her but in this particular moment, she did not feel a Queen who needed to be readied for bed. 

No, as she stood silhouetted by chaos and glaring through the downpour, she felt like a caged animal. More lightning flickered and the rain pounded on the closed flue of her darkened fireplace as Sansa paced, her brain warring furiously with itself. Her advisors were right – they had had a window to press an aggressive counter attack that was now closed. The majority of the soldiers outside were on foot and Winterfell had a heavy stock of armour and horses to transform into cavalry. 

Until the tower had appeared. 

She’d been bargaining for the aggression but now the Lords especially were wary of the large, wooden pillar that was gaining height by day. The tower was built far enough away from the walls that they couldn’t accurately shoot at it but close enough that one large trebuchet on top could do an unmentionable amount of damage. If they led an attack on Winterfell with a trebuchet war machine, the walls would fall and once the walls fell, they would be overrun. 

Everyone would die. 

Now, the Lords only spoke of caution and whined about over riding the betrothal. The boy has ambition and charisma, he will stop at nothing until he has a grander position, they argued. A grander position from which he can demand more and more things, she’d wagered. The siege tower had all but confirmed that for her. Sansa let out a frustrated growl and kicked out at the stand of fireplace tools, which crashed loudly to the floor and did little to funnel her fury. 

She resumed her path back and forth instead, face mirroring the storm. 

The insult, the gall, the absolute sheer _impudence_ of these people. A rebellion over one man’s hurt ego, it made her lips curl back into a sneer. The irony of having her Crown challenged by someone who couldn’t handle an aspect of nobility that wasn’t even afforded to her at birth – the right to marry someone of their choosing. It was grossly unwarranted and selfish in her opinion and something in her wanted to tear his throat out for it. 

She knew many outside the walls were banking on having a King with a future. Sansa’s refusal to marry or bear an Heir for the North weighed heavily on many minds – Lord and smallfolk alike. They bargained, threatened, mutinied, cajoled, gifted and sanctioned her several times early in her rule; marry someone or lose the Crown. Marry someone or be forever unstable. Marry someone to no longer be a target. Marry someone to reassure the people you can be controlled. Marry, marry, marry. 

Sansa did not want to marry, especially not to any of the simpering Lords that over time she’d come to view as inferior. She didn’t want a man who hid behind his wife’s skirts and titles, she didn’t want a man with eyes full of ambition for his offspring, she didn’t want to marry a man who did not love her and the simple fact of the matter is she would never marry someone she did not love. 

She’d married twice for duty and both times it had nearly killed her. 

The man who had loved her truly was long dead and her personal punishment was not being aware she loved him back until after it was too late to save him. The guilt and agony of her broken heart over this man had long since stopped bleeding – scar tissue had formed, hard and protective over her heart. No one would ever force her to marry again and she would never force another to marry at someone’s whim. 

Sansa only supported marriages of love, one of her biggest pitfalls and letdowns according to her court. She pretended she couldn’t hear their whispers and didn’t eavesdrop their paltry gossip as they roamed the halls unaware of her but the fact of the matter was, she was painfully aware. The snide comments, the whispers, the japes at her expense. 

She would be unbeatable in battle and strategy until she had a weakness and many sought to vy for her attention and love as a way to provide it. In all ways, Sansa was paranoid and this activity had done very little to soothe her paranoias. In the end, she let them smile and wine her but would never fall prey to any man or promise. 

Her weakness had died and she was no longer susceptible. 

She hadn’t banked on love and marriage being the weakness of soft-palmed Lordlings, which would bring a small army to her walls. Every house banner and captain had been observed and documented – she'd review them and their allegiances once she’d figured out a way out of this mess. The ever-tightening noose around her neck was the slow, growing realization that she did not _have_ a way out. 

Sansa had prided herself on seeing all angles, all desires and all schemes. She anticipated betrayal, counted on deceit and depended upon greed to plot and manipulate both her allies and her enemies. The fact that this was so sudden and her advisors were so limp-wristed with their response had lit a fire of fury in her chest. 

She paced, a wrinkle forming in her brow. 

She’d have to be careful – the lack of novel ideas and foresight not only on her part but that of her advisors and allies spoke volumes. She was reasonably sure that Lord Glover had one, if not two, allies within the castle working against her and their churlish inaction all but confirmed it. Any moves she made would have to be carefully calculated or the information would get outside before she could enact it. 

She had been cornered in her home by people she trusted while she had two thousand women and children to protect, along with all her fighting men and their steeds. Her move to press an attack had been refuted thoroughly but no one had provided an alternative plan other than readying siege defenses. 

Based on the machine being erected outside, siege defenses would be useless. They were waiting to be slaughtered. Or rather, the people who remained loyal to Sansa were waiting to be slaughtered. 

The thought made her seize a metal pitcher of water and hurl it at the opposite wall with a frustrated scream. She panted, standing in the middle of the room vibrating with helpless, rage-fueled, futile energy. The emotions burning in her chest clawed up the back of her throat and cinched her shoulder muscles up. 

Her father would have sought to interact with them, understand, bargain until they saw reason. Her Lady mother would simply offer an alternative marriage. Jon wouldn’t have given him the time of day, let alone told him no. Robb would have allowed it, serving his Lords as much as he served their intentions. 

Arya would have cut his throat after he’d departed the castle. 

Sansa ruefully reflected on the fact that she now would have opted for her sisters’ route but was neither efficient at slitting throats, nor being invisible. 

What of her other brother? 

Bran would do magic. 

Bran never would have been caught by surprise because he would have seen this coming – either via anticipation or his many ravens and crows that rode the winds would have spotted the advance and sang a song of warning long before Sansa’s human guards spied anything. 

Bran declined to call his gifts magic but Sansa was a simple girl when it came to such things and she had long since decided magic was magic, despite what the person using it said. She’d been resistant to its uses and aspects in the world until the Long Night. Since hearing long dead Ice Kings scraping and punching their way through their stone crypts to attack to descendants of their smallfolk, Sansa wholeheartedly believed magic flowed through this world. It would eddie around most people in it but there were definitely a select few who could sense it, channel it and use it in whatever forms it managed to present itself. 

Sansa attempted to follow the Faith of the Seven as her Mother did but her Father's Old Gods often found their ways into her thoughts and prayers. The Old Gods knew magic, they wielded it. Rumor said some of those magics still ran through Winterfell's walls and fed the fat Weirwood tree in the Godswood, so she'd grown up around it. Finding a bag of faces in Arya's possessions years before and the terrifying confrontation that resulted because of it had driven the message home. This concept of magic being real and evidently having touched her siblings was enough to have Sansa convinced it existed. She just didn’t understand why it eddied around _her._

She wished now that she had this magic. Bran could see the future and people’s minds, Arya could make herself invisible and silent, Jon had been brought back to life, Rickon had spoken of dreams where he ran as his wolf, Shaggydog. 

Standing here now in this room, she wanted to scream at the Gods. 

All these gifts to her kin and what was she given? 

“Traitors and cowards,” Sansa answered herself with a growl. Thunder boomed outside, washing over the castle and drowning out all other noise for a brief series of moments. The lightning that preceded it however, had illuminated a chest in the corner of the room that caught her eye. Slowly, as her brain whirred and clicked into place, Sansa turned and approached the chest. 

It was pale, banded by burnished copper and featured a large bronze lock that Sansa had long since had picked. It was found long ago in the rooms that had once belonged to Maester Luwin, who was a known friend and confidant to her mother. The lock permanently hung open now, dangling crookedly under the red painted initials that shone in the momentary light. 

_C.T._

Sansa sunk to her knees and reached out to lift the lid; it creaked loudly and the smell that rose out of it spoke of time and decay. It smelled like old parchment, pungent herbs and dust. Inside, the chest was filled with an impressive amount of small, ornate bottles with handwritten tags. Most bottles were empty but there were still a few labelled and stoppered. 

As she went through the bottles and read the tags with Maester Luwin's thin, cramped writing on every inch of space she wondered more and more about how much he did for her Lady Mother during their time together. 

"... _for aching joints in the morning_..." 

"... _for the pounding of temples..._ " 

"... _for pain from moonblood_..." 

" _...for extreme heat in the body_..." 

They all appeared to be variations on the same vein but differently concocted by him to cater to Lady Catlyn's specific needs and ailments. Some of the descriptions were vague, such as ‘... _for rising with the sun...’_ while others were completely untreatable when it came to tinctures such as ‘... _to decry the Stranger_...’ 

Sansa sorted through the bottles, the glasses clinking musically as she slipped her fingers between the necks to pull the tags up to read. She wasn’t even sure if there was anything here for what she was looking for but desperation made her examine every single one. 

Lightning flashed and thunder roared again as she pulled up a small bottle filled with a dark, viscous liquid. The simple tag read, ‘ _...for peace of mind...’_

There was a space of several silent, rainy moments in which she stared at the bottle and the only noise was the storm and her frantic breathing. Her mind raced – what's the worst that could happen? 

The tincture is rancid and she winds up ill? 

She sleeps very well? 

Or maybe...she winds up with some sort of...peace of mind? 

Lightning flickered once more and thunder shivered her ribs as she held the bottle up and her face melted into one of resolve. She stood, letting the trunk fall shut as she made the decision and tucked the bottle into a small pocket in the folds of her dress. A pale hand grabbed the thick black fur cloak that she’d slung over the back of a chair by the fire and threw it about her shoulders, clipping the wolf clasp together at her throat decisively. 

She lit a candle and put it inside a glass lantern, shutting the enclosure and latching it. The lantern was in hand as she swept from her chambers and instead of passing the guards out in the hallway, she ducked down a narrow staircase hidden behind a thick tapestry. The staircase wound around the inside of the outermost walls of the tower; it formed a highway directly from the Lord’s Tower to the Main Building, emerging behind another tapestry some 30 feet behind a pair of standing guards. Sansa shielded her lantern with her cloak and she slipped away from them and took another long hallway down towards the Guest Hall. Just before she reached the doors, she cut right and took a narrow hallway towards the armoury. 

There were no doors this way directly into the Godswood, despite the buildings backing onto it but there was one, single window. Sansa unlatched it quietly and pushed the pane wide, letting in the roar of the wind and rain. The smell of wet leaves and tangy scent of rainwater hitting the hot pools reached her as she leaned out and lowered the lantern to the ground via a chain attached to its handle. It was a bit of a drop, at least 6 feet, but Sansa had used this window many times after Robb had shown it to her. 

When she’d injured her foot jumping out it once, he taught her how to land. 

Now, as an adult Queen clambering through the same window in the dead of night during a violent storm, she used the memory of her body and instinct to take a short breath, sling both her legs over and let go of the iron window frame. She landed and made a small noise as the air was briefly knocked out of her lungs but otherwise had successfully made it into the Godswood without alerting anyone. 

The lantern didn’t put off much light in the oppressive darkness and amounted to little more than an accompanying glow rather than a guiding light. Nonetheless, Sansa knew this enclave like the back of her hand and followed her memory towards the Weirwood tree in the center. As she approached, she could smell it over the scent of the rain on the leaves and soil. 

It smelled like blood and honey, both metallic and sick as well as saccharine and sweet. It had always smelled of honey but as the years had passed and the Long Night rose and fell, the smell of blood had grown and now still lingered. On especially cold nights, there were reports of a single tear of blood appearing on the trees face as it once had before the march of the undead. 

Tonight, she found the tree and lifted the lantern to its visage and found it smiling – the smile was amused and she got a tingle of mocking from it. Sansa started at the change and took two steps back before she steeled herself, rain already soaking her hair and plastering it darkly to her scalp. Rivulets began to run down her face, dripping off her nose and running into her mouth if she parted her lips. All around her, the water pounded the Earth loudly, as if it were made into an airborne ocean that raged against the coast of soil. 

Determined, Sansa knelt in the mud with both knees and jammed the metal legs on the bottom of the lantern into the muck beside her. She glared up at the tree, blinking rainwater rapidly out of her eyes and she realized she had no idea how to start. The rage and unfairness of the night that brought her here still sat in her chest but now that she was before the tree something deeper and scarier opened up in her chest. 

It was akin to running to her Mother after being tormented by nightmares or the one time she’d been chased in the Wolfswood by a bear – when her Father had ridden up and hauled her up into his saddle by one arm, she’d been able to do nothing but sob into his chest with relief as they rode away. 

Helplessness. 

Being in this place, in front of this tree, she’d always felt safe and like a child of the world. She felt reassured that there was always something larger, more powerful and it would always hold the world at bay here. Now, she felt like the air was thin. 

The power of this tree and its relationship to the castle and the people who inhabited it was hinged upon _her_ and instead, she knelt in front of it in the dead of night to beg. She narrowed her eyes, even as the action forced the gathering tears from them. 

“Help me,” She begged. As hard as it was to start, once the initial plea was torn from her throat, it became as torrential as the rain around her. 

“Anything. I need something – good fortune, a blessing of wit, a...a... some sort of battle fury! Anything, please! Don’t you feel it? Don’t you see around you? We will die. If we die, _you_ will die. There will be no source here for you, no people to mind you. Do you not see?” She asked, panting with emotion as her hands wrapped around each other in front of her, clasped in prayer. The tree said nothing, did not change. 

“Please! Please! I know I haven’t been the most faithful to you but here I am! I crawl to you, in my weakest hour, I beg you. If not me, help my people. Ensure I die and that the people here will flee and survive if that is your price but do _something_ . _Help us!_ " 

When still the tree did not respond, she didn’t feel a rush in the wind and there was no answering thunder or lightning, a despairing whine crawled up her throat. 

“You will not give me magic but that does not mean I won’t use it!” Sansa finally snapped angrily and her hand shot into her pocket, withdrawing the small vial. She dug her nail into the wax and then again did the same motion with the cork. Determined, she tipped the small vial into her mouth and grimaced at the sour and very spicy taste of well-mixed herbs. 

Pressing the back of her free hand to her mouth, Sansa dropped the vial and resisted rinsing her mouth out with the equally foul-tasting mineral water of the spring. Instead, she swallowed the awful mixture and gasped out a sound of revulsion. 

A sensation like needles of a sleeping limb climbed up her back and engulfed her head. Sansa gasped and keeled forwards, her hands going deeply into the mud as they supported her. Her stomach writhed as if it had nothing but lemon juice in it and the foul aftertaste of pickled herb filled her mouth. 

Bands of darkness, crushing and consuming, wrapped around her chest in her mind and squeezed to push the air from her lungs. Sansa gasped in futility before she sat back on her heels to grab at her throat with muddy hands. She tried to breathe but no matter what, her lungs simply wouldn’t inflate. Sansa was in a blind panic but couldn’t call out for help, even as she whirled in place. 

All that was illuminated by the lantern was her muddy dress, the fallen leaves amongst the tree roots and the spooky outline of its face. 

Her vision narrowed and pulsed, the darkness creeping forwards while the Queen gurgled and choked. Her white, clawed hand reached for the unchanged panel of the Weirwood tree as it smiled down on her and her vision went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello!
> 
> this time my offerings are not so much smut, so hopefully you will forgive me for that, but plenty of angst. trying to write a bit more of a grown up but still malleable Sansa. I don't think she'd ever be able to harden up her bleeding heart but she'd definitely be very distant when it came to guarding hers after everything she's been through. 
> 
> \- i'm not an expert in medieval architecture, this story and all it's big moves are based off three lines i remember from a caption under a shitty textbook photo from highschool so get completely amped for that  
> \- i wanted it to be smutty and i TRIED but it just doesn't go with the flow  
> \- time is as relative in this story as it is in GRRM's  
> \- i wanna just barf up all five chapters but my ego wants me to space it out to get feedback so i'm gonna post one chapter a day  
> \- look honestly, i'm just trying to get my feet when it comes to Sansa doing Queen shit  
> \- i joined a beta group on facebook but have yet to use it so this is a dirty unbeta'd story and all mistakes are mine  
> \- the lore/expanded characters here are a mix of canon from the wiki and complete bullshit so if you're a purist please be nice 
> 
> please provide me with feedback, opinions, keyboard smashing, etc.


	2. The Rose Garden

When Sansa blinked her eyes open, she was staring at a half-finished scene of a black dog being chased by a large grey wolf in her embroidery loop. It was in her lap and trailed a long red thread from the wolf’s feral eyes to the needle absently clasped between her thumb and forefinger. 

Her head jerked up as if she’d nodded off and she blearily glanced around. 

She was in the small, watery garden at the foot of the Red Keep that at one point had belonged to Myrcella Baratheon. It had used to bear nothing but white flowers but in her absence the roses had changed to bear the excess from the main gardens at the Sept of Baelor and in this case, appeared to showcase a stunning variety of yellow and blue roses. Aside from all of the planters and plots, two fountains sat at either end of the narrow courtyard and were connected by a shallow running pool that stretched between them. It was narrow enough even the court ladies would be able to step over it, or dip their toes in should the mood take them. 

It all looked exactly as it had when she was a girl, while she still appeared as she did in her everyday life. Even the mud that had been on her dress remained. 

She shot to her feet, the forgotten needlework frame clattering loudly to the Redstone and she gaped openly all around her. Everything looked pristine and real – she could hear the water burbling and feel the warmth of the sun’s rays. If she listened carefully, she could even hear the faint clamor of the city below. Instinctively, she approached a bush and touched the thorns, accidentally pricking her finger harshly. She shoved the wounded digit between her lips with a sharp gasp, soothing the wound. 

Sansa turned as she heard approaching footsteps, measured and heavy. She froze and slowly, her finger pulled away from her lips while she breathed, “Sandor.” 

He stood in the center of the gardens, looking around with what appeared to be confused irritation on his face. His hair was greyed at the temples and he had a beard that he’d never had under service of the Lannisters – he looked the same way he did when she last saw him, when he was with her in the North. It was him, down to the homespun brown wool tunic and sturdy canvas britches. When he spied her, his expression changed from confusion to some sort of understanding. 

“You did this, then?” He asked her, his rough voice sending a violent shiver through her. It had been decades since he’d addressed her and she’d heard that tenor. Absently, she wandered closer to him and stared openly into his face as she said, “I think so.” 

Her hand lifted and reached out between them, touching the waxy burns that whorled over his temple gently. Her fingertips trailed down to touch his beard and she stared into his face in awed shock as she asked him, “Are you real?” 

He gave her an impatient look and knocked her hand away. 

“Don’t be daft. The question is ‘are you dead' and the answer to that is obviously fucking yes,” Sandor informed her shortly as he moved past her. He walked to the bench she’d been sitting on and lowered himself onto it with an eerily familiar but long-forgotten grunt before he jerked his head, motioning her over. Sansa was staring at him, afraid if she blinked, he’d disappear. Her feet moved of their own accord until she was sitting beside him. 

“Stop gaping, didn’t your septa teach you anything?” He barked at her, his dark eyes giving her a side look as he shifted to get comfortable. 

“How do you know you’re dead?” She asked him and he sighed as he gestured around. 

“I’m old, _this_ is older. I was young when this was like this, you more so. And yet we’re here, I’m old and you are approaching the same age,” He observed caustically and Sansa’s cheeks pinked as she rebuked him with, “I’m not old.” 

“You’re not a maid either. Pretty little girl makes a beautiful woman, fucking shocking. Let’s get on with it. Why am I here?” 

“How are you so amenable to being here? Aren’t you surprised you’re...,” She trailed off helplessly, trying to not be crass. He gave her a deadpanned expression and his lip twitched in amusement as he emphasized, _“_ _Dead?”_

Sansa thinned her lips and nodded primly in reply. 

“Well,” Sandor sighed with satisfaction, “I know I wouldn’t have died without taking my cunt of a brother with me.” 

Sansa’s jaw worked as she clamped it, images of burning Sandor’s body at his funeral playing behind her eyes. They’d found his crushed, singed, bloody corpse on top of the shattered carcass of Ser Robert Strong. The resentment that such a creature’s demise should demand the life of someone she valued so highly still burned brightly in her heart. She knew he watched her as she dropped her head and worked up the voice to clear her throat and say, “Yes, he died with you.” 

“You’re upset.” 

“I didn’t enjoy your funeral,” Sansa replied lightly, looking out at the ocean beyond the parapets. 

“Bad canapes?” 

Sansa turned her head and fixed him with a cold look as she said, “You knew I would hate to say goodbye to you.” 

His nod turned into a small shrug as he replied, “Everyone likes their dogs.” 

“Sandor,” Sansa sighed sharply as she turned to face him on the bench, finding his eyes already on her. They were as gray, depthless and glittering as they’d been when he was alive and she reached out, placing a palm on either side of his face as she said, “I never got a chance to...feel for you back.” 

He studied her, expression closed and guarded. 

“I realized too late that I was too young. I didn’t know what I wanted, let alone where to look for it. I never got a chance to love you the way that -,” She explained but he cut her off with a short snort. 

“I didn’t love you – not how I should have.” 

“But you did anyhow.” 

“Aye. People have always wanted you; I assume that’s why you’re a Queen.” 

It was her turn to look confused and surprised as she asked him, “How did you know I became Queen?” 

Sandor looked away, out to the ocean as she had. He didn’t seem to know how to respond and she was watching his brain consider its options before he formulated a reply. 

“I know...some things. It’s like I’m there but I’m not, would be my guess. As if I’m asleep and someone is telling me a story – I'm not sure what’s my dream, the story or reality. Not sure how to wake up. But I can only parse it as that...here. Now. I didn’t feel me before. Probably the biggest hint that I’m dead,” He reasoned aloud and Sansa nodded slowly, the logic seeming to make sense to her. Many times since his death she’d felt like he was with her or she’d wake and catch the tail end of a scent that made her violently miss him. Often, she’d told herself it was her own heartsickness that brought forth the feelings; Sandor Clegane didn’t know how she’d felt about him, there was no reason for his spirit to linger. 

Oddly enough, looking at him now and knowing that he might have been around her made her feel even more indebted to him. Protecting her, even from his grave. 

“I miss you,” Sansa whispered as tears sprung to her eyes. 

For the first time, he looked at her with pity on his face. His hand rose and two large fingers, warm and calloused, pinched her chin gently like he had when she was a child. Her own hands lifted to grasp his wrist, holding his hand against her face almost desperately. 

“You said it yourself. The lone wolf dies,” He told her knowingly. 

“I can’t,” She protested fiercely, the words turning into a plea and then a declaration, “I won’t.” 

“You’re being petulant because you think you can. It makes you weak. They’ll exploit you for it,” He declared and she blanched. He shrugged at her reaction and studied her tensely, boring down into her eyes the way people had long stopped doing. Not condescending, but assessing from a place of higher knowledge. 

“Are you dead?” He asked seriously. Sansa sniffed but shook her head and he turned to face her more on the bench, his arm draping across the back as he said, “So, why are we here? It’s not because you miss me or we’d have been here earlier.” 

“I do miss you,” She argued and he made a noise of impatience as he hissed, “Sansa.” 

She straightened her back and took a long, shaky inhale before spilling the entire story to him from a week ago in the Main Hall to the night she guessed they were currently evading now, describing her advisors and her suspicions, her lack of outreach help, the betrayal of some of the Northern houses, her anxiety about the Seat after she dies even as she defends it now, her worry about her people and how they’ll perceive any loss or win. 

“If I fall to him, I fall to him and an inexperienced jockey knight is King unless the Lords overthrow him. If I raze their camp with fire and run over their infantry with cavalry, I’m slaughtering my people. My _kin_. I don’t have an out, I don’t have a way to win this,” She admitted finally and leaned forward on her elbows, burying her face in her hands. There was too much going on in her head to issue the sob that she so wished, but her face felt tight and pressurized none the less. 

His hand fell to her back and remained there. It didn’t rub consoling circles but it was heavy and warm and felt so so alive that she soaked it in. Then, he let out a chuckle. 

“So different you are, Queen Sansa, that you’ve turned into a King. Might not be my station, _Your Grace_ , so I beg forgiveness or whatever the fuck but seems to me you’ve gotten used to winning battles of men and not wits. Might not be the Iron Throne you sit on but it is _a_ throne and people will _want_ it,” Sandor rumbled at her, his remaining eyebrow raising as he made his point to ask her, “When did you stop fighting for it?” 

Sansa’s blue eyes popped open, looking straight at the red stone underneath their feet with surprise. 

_Always keep your foes confused._

_Do not have a quick temper and a slow mind._

_What we don’t know is usually what gets us killed._

Lessons and litanies that had been circling the drain of despair in her head suddenly sparkled with understanding and Sansa sat up, her mouth open slightly. 

“I have to outsmart him. I have to do something more bold,” She murmured to Sandor, who leaned back with a satisfied sigh as he watched her astonished mind begin weaving a plan together. 

“Bolder than starting a siege?” Sandor questioned conversationally as Sansa got to her feet to pace in front of him, wringing her hands together and her brow furrowed. He stared up at her, eyes following her path and taking her in – her face had filled in, she had lines on her forehead and crinkles around her eyes. What had once been flame red hair had faded to a burnished bronze colour – somehow still brighter and more vibrant than the Tully auburn her Mother wore. 

“No, no, it has to be half. Half demonstrable force, half mental tactics. There has to be incentive to find my option appealing,” She thought out loud, her mud caked skirts swishing loudly. Her northern boots sounded especially loud on the delicate redstone and she didn’t notice even as Sandor grinned at her. 

“Put some pig fat in the rabbit stew,” He commented wolfishly. Sansa jerked her hands up in frustration at that before she threw herself down on the bench beside him. 

“I can’t do that without risking anyone getting killed or killing anyone,” She sighed miserably. There was still a line between her fine red eyebrows, the thoughts still coursing violently through her mind. 

“What are you trying to kill though? You can’t kill a thought or an idea. What’s the real fear? Do they have Undead?” 

“No.” 

“My cunt brother?” 

“You know they don’t.”

_"Your_ cunt brother?” 

“They’re not cunts and which one?” 

“Sorry, your cunt cousin?” 

“Jon is in the North since...since King’s Landing.” 

“Good, so no undead folks then. Current company not included,” He rasped with an eerie chuckle that made Sansa make a face of distaste at him as he said, “Superior fighters?” 

“They only outnumber us. My men are strong.” 

“Oh, only outnumber. That’s good,” Sandor commented sarcastically and Sansa answered with an equally snarky, “It takes more than _soldiers_ to win wars.” 

His eyes caught hers when she said those words and he leaned in close as he said, “So - what are you trying to kill? What’s the real threat?” 

“The siege tower,” Sansa whispered and Sandor rumbled his approval as he said, “There we go.” 

They gazed at each other for a long moment and finally, she gave him a sad smile. Hesitantly, her hand slid across the bench until it touched his. He followed her gaze down as her fingers wrapped around his knuckles and he turned his hand over in her grasp so they could thread their fingers together for the first time. 

“It’s not fair. I should have you,” Sansa all but whimpered. 

“It can’t be and never would be and you know it,” He told her firmly even as his thumb swiped over hers sweetly. Sansa shook, the wave of grief threatening to sweep her under and leave her starting to sob again before she said, “I was mad at you for the longest time.” 

“It was a little rash but I don’t regret it.” 

“Of course. You don’t have to deal with the pain of your death. You gave that gift to me,” She told him primly to bury the agony. He inhaled deeply at that, his hand contracting around hers and considered her words before he replied. 

“I didn’t know. The world was ending and then it wasn’t. We were winning the war and then we weren’t. We were near each other again but not...” He trailed off and Sansa finished for him in a brittle voice. 

“Together.” 

“There never needed to be a Clegane walking the world, let alone two.” 

“Yes, but you made that decision yourself, didn’t you?” 

“I was never given any reason to ask for permission.” 

“You never gave me the chance!” Sansa exclaimed loudly, pulling her hand from his to face him angrily. Her eyes filled with tears as she accused, “You never let me want you.” 

“Why would I? I’m a burned, scarred old dog who came from a minor house. Professional brute, turncoat, monster. A hired hand, known for slitting throats on command who happened to be 15 years your senior. I killed a man before you were born. Not to mention you became a gods damned Queen _,_ what future would I have made for you?” He burst out, his own temper matching hers as the one side of his face flushed with emotion, his hand shooting out and sliding down her jaw to cup the side of her head forcibly. 

He glared down at her, a frustrated sadness blooming in his eyes. 

“I did it because you and I have no business being a you and an I. I did it because I wanted to you to have no other option other than to have a future; babes you dote on and a husband to wrangle. I did it to stop you from having a cold, lonely life when I would be sent away for sniffing around the Lady of Winterfell or die. From my own cunt brother or old age, whichever happened first,” He rasped at her, the whetstone tenor vibrating in her head. He was barely inches away and she was transfixed by both his words and the mouth he said them with. His hard, gray eyes connected with her blue ones again and a fresh peal of sadness washed over his face. 

“I was right about you being beautiful but I was wrong thinking I saved you from being lonely.” 

His hand activated and he pulled her forward to crush her mouth against his. Sansa’s eyes sunk shut in relief and the tears that had swam in them coursed down her cheeks. She kissed him back, eagerly, as she had countless times in her dreams. It was surreal, how solid and alive he felt when her arms wrapped around his neck and jarring how strong he was when his arms encircled her waist. Her bottom slid along the bench when he pulled her until her thigh was flush with his larger one. She found herself positively bent back seated on the bench, fused at the mouth with him. 

When her back twinged, she pulled away with a soft noise and he let her, his arms relinquishing their hold. Sandor leaned forward to scrub his hands over his face. Sansa stood, her cheeks pink and her lips tingling and a weird, fizzing elation in her stomach she hadn’t really experienced before. Kissing had always seemed perfunctory until now; she turned and approached him where he hunched over and stepped between his knees, fingers gently slipping down to cup his jaw and lift his head to look into her eyes. 

“It would have been ugly and messy and wouldn’t have gone well for either of us. This...this around us...where we are now...that I’m _talking_ to you and that you’re _here_ ,” She emphasized, her voice quivering as her eyes filled up again and she used both her hands to hold his lower face while she earnestly told him, “I don’t see the baker who made me lemon cakes or the crone who patched my clothing. I don’t see Maester Luwin and I would wager he’s the one who managed to get me here, no, Sandor – I see you. The Gods show me _you._ You may believe that we were never meant to be but I only see that you were the only one meant for me. Everyone else is...circumstantial.” 

His gray eyes were calculating and decisive as he regarded her and then his face crumpled into something that looked like a pained, permissive understanding and he nodded in her hands. 

She stepped closer and her arms went about his head, holding it roughly against her diaphragm and breasts while his arms enclosed around her hips and pulled them flush against his chest. Her hands roamed and fingers threaded through his hair gently while she sifted and stroked the surprisingly thin, silky strands. Her dress grew warm at her hip, the fabric heating with his breath. They stood like that in silence, Sansa stroking his head and Sandor breathing steadily; the warrior finally accepting the love of the Queen he’d served as long as he could. It somehow felt more intimate than their kiss had and the closeness felt like it spoke of hundreds of stolen moments that never came to be – an echo of happiness that was never savoured. A sample of the love they could have had before it would have inevitably been robbed of them. 

Just as her throat closed and her eyes stung again, Sandor pulled away and stood. He looked down into her burning sadness and briefly touched his fingers to her chin, lifting it for her. 

“We can’t linger. We go now as I went before.” 

Sansa frowned. 

“I’m not done though, I have so many questions. I have so many things I have to say, I still -,” She rebuked but he cut her off with a slow shake of his head, his gray eyes lifting to the corner of the garden at the light of the sun. It was getting orange. The sunlight on this day was narrowing, they could see the ocean and the sunset beyond it through the open-air arches in the corner. 

“You know what you came here to learn. You just need to use that brain to make it work,” He told her softly, pulling her closer to him. Sansa allowed it, her hand bracing on his chest and letting her head fall against his shoulder as she said, “I don’t want to go without you.” 

“I’m dead, Little Bird.” 

“Maybe I’m tired.” 

“Sansa,” Sandor rasped exasperatedly as they walked to the edge, staring out at the sunset. Seabirds cruised by, their elated cries carrying on the salty breeze. His hand found hers, raising between them so he could catch her eyes. He kissed the back of her hand while explaining, “We were never meant to be when we walked the world; our song happens after the story. That’s why it’s not in your books.” 

Sansa laughed and sniffed wetly as she said, “The Stranger made you a wise poet.” 

“Stranger is a cunt who didn’t give me enough time to lift your skirts,” He complained and Sansa gasped out loud before dissolving into a blushing giggle. He moved her to face him and leant down, sweeping his mouth over hers before the dazzling sunset. He kissed her with passion and ardence, pouring down through his mouth the intensity that radiated from his eyes whenever he looked at her and Sansa languished in it, smiling as she explored his lips in return. 

He broke the kiss and the way he looked down at her nearly broke her heart all over again. He was lit from his good side by sunlight and she could almost see him the way he would have been, had Gregor not gotten to him. It was both him and someone else – a person happier, with less strife and less anger. His face, normally brooding and harsh, was soft and the one side of his mouth curved gently in what could almost be mistaken for a smile but his eyes shone with the most honest version of love she’d ever seen. He looked familiar and not familiar at the same time. It stole the breath from her lungs, instantly creating a demand in her mind to be cherished like that forever. 

He pulled her against him again and bent to kiss her as before, which she eagerly accepted. When they broke away again, he kept his forehead against hers and his eyes closed as if he were savouring the feel of the moment. Then his eyes opened to look deeply into her soul, determination entering his gaze. 

“Being alone isn’t your future, Sansa. Remember why towers are round,” He told her urgently before he engulfed her in a rough kiss. Sansa gasped into his mouth as he gathered her against him, lifting her feet off the ground. Suddenly, they were swiftly tilting and with a muffled noise of surprise and her arms wrapping tightly around his neck, they tumbled over the edge of the garden rail. 

The sun sank below the horizon and the shadow of twilight that had been kept at bay settled over the quiet garden like a hen on her eggs. Nothing was changed; the fountains still burbled and the seabirds still sung and the yellow and blue roses that had filled the garden slowly faded back to white. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello again, 
> 
> \- blue roses because sansa's eyes/she gets referred to as a winter rose and yellow roses because yellow is the colour of house clegane  
> \- sandor knew what he was doing going after gregor, he'd know he was dead  
> \- i also wish there was time for skirt-lifting but we're on a DEADLINE here
> 
> AS ALWAYS i wanna hear your thoughts and opinions - thank you to y'all who commented on chapter one, i hope i don't disappoint. :)


	3. The Plan

Rain. 

Nearby, lots of rain. It was loud and sharp – the spatter on the leaves, the gasp of the clouds, the pummel into already soaked soil. Sansa’s eyes opened suddenly, white and blue eyes contrasting harshly with the darkness of the mud spattered over her face and soaked through her hair. 

She sat up violently, shooting up like she’d been burned and craning her neck around in confusion. 

“S- Sandor,” She said  out loud , the cold settling into her body as she became more and more aware. Her vision was erratic – tree trunk, leaves, hot pools, rocks, roots, shadows. Shakily, she rose onto her knees and cast about in a frantic circle as her breath returned in harsh, shivering pants. Weakly, she called out again, “Sandor!” 

Nothing answered but the rainy  Godswood . The air was grey around her, signs of the morning light breaking through the miserable dark clouds in the sky. Her gown was soaked through and stuck to her in the most cold, unpleasant way possible but she paid it little mind despite the fact that her white skin was textured with goosebumps and her lips were purple and shaking. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated and her body was wired. 

Her heart pounded, her brain trying to make sense of what happened. It felt so real, she could almost still feel her heart pounding from the fear of both of them hurtling over the edge, she could feel the way Sandor’s body had curled around hers. He was gone and she was here again, bathed in the reality that the world existed without him and she had to be in it. It was a sensation she was familiar with waking from sleep but this was many, many times worse. The urge to dissolve into sobbing hysterics almost overcame her but she heard his last words in her head. 

_ Remember why towers are round. _

Sansa buried her face in splayed hands, closing her eyes as she tried to force herself to calm down. Breathe. Think.  _ Focus _ . 

After a few deep, forced breaths she was able to stared processing again. Towers, round. Towers being round. The siege tower not being round. A memory from her childhood floated to her mind – the ongoing saga of the Broken Tower. Her father had been trying to commission  it’s repair even back then and they were short supplies. They could reconstruct the far wall, but didn’t have enough stone to make it a round shape. The one corner would have to be squared. 

Lord Stark had  forbidden it and declared they would wait until they could source stone for a round tower. Sansa had argued with him, dismayed the project wouldn’t be completed before she’d be sent to the South. 

_ Remember why towers are round _ . 

Lord Eddard Stark had explained why towers were round and it had never seemed pertinent until this moment. Sansa gasped and shot to her feet, stumbling forwards on numb legs and catching herself on the Weirwood tree. 

“Sorry,” She told it shakily as she pushed herself to a stand, “I hope you’re right!” 

Then, she gathered what sodden material she could and fled the tree, running through the  Godswood without any formal restraint. Knowing the doors would be guarded but not locked, she slammed them open with her shoulders and rushed inside. The soldiers on either side of the door yelled and drew their weapons, brandishing them at her for a split second before one gaped and said, _“Y_ _our Grace_ _?_ ” 

She looked between them as her plan starting solidifying, large pieces of the puzzle clicking into precarious place once after another. Time was of the essence. 

“You’re a Cassel and you’re a Snow, are you not? You grew up here in Winterfell?” She questioned breathlessly. They looked at each other, eyes wide and questioning. They were unsure what to make of it, which tried her patience so she barked, “An answer, if you please.” 

“Yes ma’am,” The one identified as a Cassel said, while the other nodded. 

“You grew up under Starks,” Sansa repeated for clarity. 

“The true rulers of the North,” The man called Snow recited dutifully, both of them now standing at attention and regarding her with interest. It was like they could sense what was afoot and Sansa nodded excitedly as she pulled the doors she’d burst through shut. 

“I need a  favour of upmost secrecy. Can I trust you two?” 

They looked at  each other again before snapping into simultaneous salutes. Sansa nodded and beckoned they follow her and the dripping mud trail she was leaving. They fell into step at her elbows like she didn’t look as if she’d been thrown into a pig  sty . 

“Which one of you is more popular?” Sansa questioned as they moved through the halls, urgency balling a knot in her belly. 

“Er, Cassel, Your Grace,” Snow answered as Cassel declared, “Snow, Majesty.” 

“You need to agree,” Sansa said tersely as she swept into the Great Hall and walked past the startled maids, who openly gawked at her. She stepped up onto the Lord’s  dais and went behind the table, finding the large buffet cabinet and opening a cupboard. On the inside hung some old, ornate keys that were supposed to be with her castellan. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief and seized them, clipping the cupboard shut and pointing to the door on the opposite end of the Hall. The guards followed her, crossing the Hall, they disappeared out the door as quickly as they’d entered. 

“Did you agree?” 

“Yes,” They said and Sansa stopped, pointing up a hallway to the Guards Hall and saying, “Go and quietly fetch me 14 of your closest friends. Understand when I say closest, I say the men you trust most, would die for and die with and never betray. Men you know that I can trust, men who are loyal to this castle.” 

“Stark men,” Doran Snow answered her seriously, looking to her for confirmation. Sansa met his eyes and nodded seriously as she said, “If you suspect anything, say nothing to them.” 

“Your Grace,” He begged off, bowing tightly before he turned and quickly sped up the corridor to the Guard’s Hall. She then turned to Cassel with a steadying huff and said, “I need you to go and find me the architect who visited from Wintertown shortly before the Army outside showed up. Bring him to the crypts. Tell no one why or where you are going.” 

He nodded gravely, gave her his exit accolades and disappeared down the Hall they’d come up with the same haste. She waited for a moment, loitering and listening before she was certain there was no one coming or going before she turned and hustled her way through the halls towards the North Gate. Once there, she lurked in shadows until the roving guard patrols had passed. It helped that the mud concealed the quality of her clothes and red hair, so she was able to get fairly close to the  crypts before they moved off. As soon as they were gone, she used the keys and stole past the shrieking gate to descend the steps into the crypts of Winterfell. 

It was dark and cold below the surface and the stairs took her deep. Once she stepped into the cavernous main chamber, she turned a tight left and took a narrow, twisting series of stairs upwards. This came out in another long, cavernous hallway that was lined with somber tombs and the occasional statue. Sansa’s footfalls echoed loudly on the stone as she marched through, past the weakly flickering torches that had to be refueled. She hurried to the end and slowed, finding benches and tools and large piles of bricked stone. 

The smell got riper here, soil richly cutting through the damp dankness of the winding crypts. Some people said these crypts could go on for days in the winding darkness but her experience hiding below  during the Long Night had ruined the  serenity of resting here forever. She knew it was her destiny, and an  honour , yet could not shake the cold well of fear that built in her belly anytime she thought of her bones joining theirs in silence until called to work by the worst of evils. Sometimes she would jump from her bed with a shriek in the dead of night when she heard faint scratching and often sent brown mice flying for cover. 

As such, if she was going to be down here, she wanted to be by herself. 

So, she had begun a commission of a vein extension off of this mostly empty hall. The work had been underway for a few weeks prior to the siege situation and Sansa had been looking for an architect to ensure  its build and safety for her workers. Digging in the ground scared her – the concept of so much on top never stopped telling her it was going to collapse above her. 

When she found the mouth of the new shaft she paused and stared into the oppressive darkness. The large stone bricks had been pulled out of the wall and a narrow shaft had been burrowed into the stiff, icy earth beyond. There were no lanterns down there and the opening was crudely framed with wood and looked to be no bigger than a child. She gathered her skirts and lifted them, winding the excess material at her hip and twisting it into a messy knot that gave the bunched skirts a messy, lopsided look. Sansa got on her knees and took a deep breath, staring down into the shaft and breathing the flagrantly ripe smell of deep soil. Fear coiled in her belly and her throat clenched – spiders, worms, bugs of all kinds could be lurking down here but she had to know. This was her only option and she had to find out herself. She took a deep breath, lowered her sodden head and began to crawl. 

It was slow going and the faint light from the torches behind her was eventually blocked out by her shoulders and the girth of the skirts at her hips. The dark was unyielding, showing nothing but a black that seemed to physically press in on her eyeballs. Sansa clenched her eyes shut and focused on not kneeling on her skirts as she moved and using her hands to feel. They felt cold, soggy soil and even colder rocks – sharp, smooth, half buried. Roots from plants protruded from what felt like every angle; brushing the backs of her hands, tickling her face and slithering along her scalp. Her own breathing and struggling sounded exceptionally loud in the small space and she did her best not to worry about air. She moved for so long that the process of crawling began to feel methodical and it was easier to focus on moving forward without getting stuck with her skirts than focus on how deeply she was underground. 

“Ooof!” Sansa grunted as her head eventually connected hard with a dirt wall. She stopped, resting on her bent knees and feeling blindly out in front of her. Deep gouges from pickaxes, roots, rocks but no turn or swoop and no continuing tunnel. The shaft ended here. 

Sansa sat and tried to quiet her breathing, using her ears and turning her head so her good ear was facing up. She tried to breathe slowly, quell the thrum of her blood in her ears that pumped from exertion. It somehow seemed loudest in this little death trap and she struggled to hear over it until she’d remained still for what seemed like ages. 

Then, very faintly she heard a thump. 

Another thump, a faint clang. 

In the darkness with no one to see it, a feral smile began to spread across the Queen’s features. Her mind began to churn as she suddenly began to feel as if she were the predator rather than the caught prey. The feeling of vindication suffused her chest. As she sat there, she swore she could faintly hear the yells of men working, heavily muffled so she almost missed it. 

“Sandor Clegane, I would ravish you were you alive. You rotten, violent,  _ genius _ man,” Sansa breathed to herself. Her hands activated and shuffling with haste, she began to crawl backwards as fast as she could. Going backwards was considerably easier than moving forwards and she made quick work of it, finding the light and backing out of the tunnel far easier than she climbed in. Suddenly being out of the tunnel with so much momentum, she managed to trip backwards and land on her rear with another soft noise of pain. 

“Y. ..Your Grace? Queen Sansa?” 

Her head swung around she found herself looking into the surprised faces of a gaggle of men and her two guards from earlier. Leading the pack was a man with bronze skin and dark hair, round spectacles sat low on his nose. His mouth was open and his eyes were wide. 

“Ah,” Sansa said airily as she struggled to her feet, hastily loosening the mangled knot at her hip to straighten her heavily abused skirts before she greeted, “Daegen Percy! Just the man I was looking for.”

“In the....in the hole, your Majesty?” He asked with confusion. Behind him, Cassel the guard smirked. 

Sansa blinked before she forced a gentile smile and gestured at the dark shaft as she said, “Where else to find an  architect but his next project?” 

Percy wasn’t buying it, his dark eyes going from the shaft to her face. Decidedly, he pushed his glasses up his nose and clutched the thick slate tile he carried with him. 

“What is going on? I don’t recall being formally hired ,” He demanded with barely concealed nervousness and a healthy dose of irritation. 

“Right,” Sansa said awkwardly before she took a deep breath and dropped the smile, “I need you to ensure the end of this tunnel is widened. Not much,  mayhap eight men wide, two  deep .” 

“Eight  _ men _ wide,” Percy repeated with notable exasperation.

“Yes, and two deep and I also asked these stalwart gentlemen,” Sansa gestured behind the architect to the now openly grinning guards, “To help you carry it out. I need it today.” 

“Today?” Percy emphasized with shock, his eyebrows attempting to flee into his hairline. 

“Preferably by lunch,” Sansa replied winningly, offering a bright smile. 

“Your Grace...do we not...are you worried you will not live out that day? Should I not be assisting  Dactor with defenses?” Percy asked her weakly and Sansa approached him, looming over him due to her simple height. 

“I worry everyone here will not live out the day. This is tantamount and I require your dedication to it. I will double your purse asked for the original project but you will remain down here and not be seen or speak to anyone about your activity,” Sansa offered him pointedly. Percy’s dark eyes drifted to the side, looking at the men gathered behind him who were now looking at him with a mixture of threat and expectation. His gaze flit back to Sansa’s and he considered for a moment before he gave a quick nod. 

Sansa smiled and stepped aside as she said, “Excellent. I’ll leave you to begin.” 

“Your Grace, I know you’re needing time expediency but I don’t know that it’s feasible to have this many men working the tunnel,” He told her seriously. Sansa nodded and pointed to Cassel, who stepped forward. 

“I’ll take Cassel and two of his men. I have a project for them as well,” Sansa informed him. Deftly, she stepped around the flustered architect and motioned at Cassel with her hand. He nudged two men beside him and they broke off and immediately followed the wet, mud splattered monarch out of the crypt. 

Sansa’s mind was working as hard as an ox, turning and whirring and balancing and scheming. She was already ahead of herself, planning step four as she executed step two. Silently, the men dogged her with measured, marching steps and they hurried up the winding stairs and out into the courtyards. It was busier now this time of the morning but no one paid any mind to her until the men with her passed, which attracted some confused looks. 

She marched straight to the blacksmith. Outside, a fire was already going and racks, hooks and hanging poles were already adorned with as many pigs and pig carcasses as they could spare. There were buckets, filled to the brim with thick, yellowy fat and a large cauldron over the fire burbling more. Two women worked the area, blood spattered and frantic. Inside the darkened building, the kilns roared and the blacksmith could be heard hammering away. 

Sansa stopped and craned her neck, peering around until she spied the woodcutter across the yard with freshly finished stocks of lumber piling beside his bench and a thin, spindly assistant lugging things back and forth. 

“I need an unnaturally hot fire,” Sansa said out loud, looking back and forth. Cassel startled as if prodded by a reddened poker and stepped forward, following her line of sight back and forth. 

“Say no more, Your Grace,” He said seriously and jerked his head at the two men, who broke away and began to approach the woodcutting benches. Sansa gave him a brief, tight smile of relief. 

“Not a word to anyone. Not even a breath,” She reminded tersely. Cassel nodded, executed what could be assumed was a bow and turned away to attend to his task. Sansa watched them go for a brief moment before turning and beginning to hurry towards the Main Hall. She had to get upstairs and get into a bath before her schedule was put off and roused suspicion. Just as well, she couldn’t look like a  wild woman when she played politics. 

No, she decided as she headed towards her quarters by ducking through shadows and taking hidden stairs, she must look the part. 

They threatened a Queen. 

They angered a Queen. 

They would see a Queen. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I missed a day because I was busy with family, you have all of my sorries
> 
> \- Have you guessed what the plan is?   
> \- I want to prepare you now; Sandor does not come back to life but there is a happy ending and it is for Sansa because girlfriend deserves it  
> \- We're playing fast and loose with distance/the physics of tunnels so give me a little wiggle room pls  
> \- I'm also using this story to play with characters so...sorry. :D
> 
> as always, remember to feed me your feelings


	4. The Fire Underneath

Sansa hated having her hair up. 

It had been scraped back and plastered and plaited and tied for her entire childhood. One of the main habits she’d accepted from her time living in the South was her penchant for having her hair down. However, when she had a point to make, she’d discovered in the years since becoming Queen that having her hair up and away often forced men to take her more seriously. 

Her maid, Synna, was talented and patient with Sansa’s objections to having her hair styled so the Queen’s request that her hair be put up had been met with enthusiasm. To Sansa’s dismay, bathing had been much more difficult than she’d anticipated and she’d required two separate tubs to effectively cleanse her of the mud, dirt and filths that she’d managed to coat herself in. The dress would most likely be destroyed and recycled into something else as it wasn’t fit to be worn; the tag from the bottle she’d drank had been in her pocket and she’d saved it from the frock. For whatever reason, she hadn’t been able to throw it into the fire and instead, the muddy scrap now lurked in her breast pocket. 

Synna had just finished placing Sansa’s ornate silver circlet on her head when there was a loud knock at the door that caused both women to look at each other in a flash of panic. 

Sansa leapt from her seat and Synna seized the fur cloak off a peg at the foot of the bed so that when the door opened, they were in the midst of attaching her clasp. Sansa turned her head as one of her advisors swept into the room, followed by his ever-present page. 

“Lord Liddle,” Sansa greeted. 

The man walked to the center of the room expectantly as he said, “You called for my aid?” 

“Indeed, I did,” Sansa said with relief, “Thank you so much for your haste.” 

Synna finished with the cloak and stepped away to gather up the bathing tools she’d brought into the room and flee with them. 

Sansa walked to the door and gestured for the Lord to follow her, which he did. They fell into step outside and began to walk, taking the stairs past the resolute soldiers who guarded her suites. They walked rather quickly; Sansa’s nerves were still ragged with urgency but her face was sculpted into an unbothered veneer. 

“I should like your guidance. I understand your expertise may not be in war however, you do have a head for relations – families, couples and the like,” She told him as Lord Liddle listened and nodded imperceptibly, mouth pinched in modesty. The scuff of the page behind them told Sansa that the youth was delicately shadowing them like an anxious child. 

“You did not agree with my plan to lure them. You did not agree with an overnight attack. You don’t agree with rolling oil through the camp. You insist that this should be handled diplomatically. Without any further recourse, I am finally willing to admit you may be right. So, I ask quietly, which approach you think would result in Lord Glover going back to his darling Motte?” Sansa asked the man, nodding her head and bobbing a thanks to maids ushering supplies past them through the halls. Linens and valuables were being packed into crates and moved into the cellars to prevent damage. 

“If I may speak freely, Your Grace,” He began and Sansa nodded and gestured with her hand for him to do so as they continued towards the Great Hall. He sucked in a lousy breath of air as he said, “At this point, I believe you’ve enraged him enough he is within his rights to demand his original vet.” 

Sansa thinned her lips under his watchful eye, sunlight flashing across their faces as they walked through the shafts pouring through large windows above them. 

“I thought you agree – diplomacy,” He prompted and Sansa took a deep, angry breath. 

" _Conceding_ and assigning a girl already in love with her betrothed to a man with such stubborn, violent temerity would, factually, be a surrender. You think we shall surrender, Lord Liddle?” Sansa demanded tightly and the man heaved an equally annoyed sigh. 

“I don’t believe everyone here should suffer your refusal to capitulate to anything but your own opinion,” He told her daringly and Sansa’s eyebrows raised briefly as an amused smirk flit across her face. 

“And instead suffer his? Is he King?” Sansa queried with feigned confusion and Lord Liddle returned her barb with a sour, long-suffering expression that a small part of her took pleasure in. 

“No, Your Grace. Be that as it may, should he happen to overthrow _you_ , he would be King and he _would_ be getting his way,” Lord Liddle informed her tartly as he drew to a stop and fixed her with an expression she didn’t like. Sansa touched her knuckle to her lower lip and stalled, appearing to be considering as she surveyed the floor. Her eyes flicked up and caught his while she tapped said knuckle against her lip. 

“You are saying it’s less a matter of me conceding and more of a matter of...remaining Queen? Despite the agreement with the Manderlys?” 

“Your Grace, someone will pay the price either way,” Lord Liddle beseeched her convincingly, smelling her falter and moving to finalize her thought as he said, “The Manderlys, the inhabitants of this castle, or yourself.” 

Sansa remained silent but deep in thought and slowly, she turned and joined him as they continued on. Lord Liddle did not say anything further and chose to let her stew, noting but not commenting when the regent wrapped her arms around herself, a line forming between her brows. 

As they approached the Great Hall, she stopped and faced him. Her expression resolved into one of acceptance and determination. 

“I shall discuss it with him. It will be the offer given to disassemble his campaign,” Sansa said decisively and Lord Liddle put his hands together in front of him briefly and anointed her with his relief. 

“A wise decision, Your Grace. Thank-you.” 

“Thank you, Lord Liddle,” Sansa smiled back at him as a hard twinkle entered her eye, “for your guidance, advice and loyalty.” 

He bowed tightly in front of her before turning away and Sansa watched him go, soft smile and predatory gaze watching him walk into the Great Hall. A maid rushed up to her just as Sansa noted that at some point, Lord Liddle’s page had disappeared. 

“Your Grace, Lord Flint is responding to your summons,” The girl murmured to her and Sansa nodded before allowing herself to follow. The maid walked ahead briskly to open doors and announce her to the guards ahead but led her more or less straight to her solar. It didn’t surprise Sansa – Lord Flint was very young and walked in large shoes. His Lady mother had died giving birth to him, her last of a legacy of stalwart but deceased sons and he’d been raised by the family until he’d assumed his position as Lord. Often, his desire to be seen by Sansa was in a painfully dull and formal way and this often occurred either in the Great Hall or in her solar. 

She swept into the room, the maid who’d led her there closing the door promptly behind her, and noted that Lord Flint stood in the middle of the room, hands folded together and his feet shoulder width apart as he stared sightlessly out the windows. 

“Lord Flint,” She greeted and he roused himself with a shake to drop into a quick bow. 

“Queen Sansa, you sent for me.” 

“It was more of a request than an order but I appreciate your attention and time,” Sansa told him easily and the young man shrugged bashfully as she motioned for him to sit. She sat in an overstuffed chair close to the fire, facing him and studying his features. He was young but he wasn’t ugly, nor stupid and he regarded her with eyes almost as blue as her own. 

“I have an excess of both right now while we.... wait,” Lord Flint managed to lightly say as he caught her gaze and pressed, “Is that what you wish to speak about?” 

Sansa took a heavy inhale and opened her mouth when Lord Flint spoke again. 

“I remain of the opinion that you need a show of good will. It’s within your own purview not to marry and that is something that simply has to be accepted; denying it to others however doesn’t instill confidence in your intent to further the future,” He told her in a lecturing tone reminiscent of Maester Luwin, who would often close his eyes as he ranted at Sansa so he didn’t have to see the impudence that would grow on her face – something that only ever served to further anger him. 

“While I understand your point, denying Lord Cerwyn a wife – a woman who was promised to him from birth and is genuinely attached to him - to marry her to Lord Glover because he one day woke up with ambitions,” Sansa replied with a sweet smile even as she laced acid into her words, “Hardly indicates my word and oath is worth anything, does it? In fact, I’d daresay that would present as favoritism.” 

“The Lady Manderly is one of a few eligible noble women for marriage. Accepting a betrothal before her birth is also viewed as favouritism,” Lord Flint volleyed back without a blink of restraint and Sansa rolled her eyes as she intoned, “Heaven forbid we marry from a lesser House and increase anyone else’s station in life.” 

“It leaves holes for others to claim rights to lands or titles that are not theirs by blood. That and noble women know what is expected of them and their station,” Lord Flint argued back tightly and Sansa sighed in appreciation as the solar door opened and a maid bustled in with a tea service on a tray. The tray was placed on the table between them. Sansa immediately set about doctoring her tea after inviting her guest to his own cup. 

She sat back in her seat, taking a sip and meeting the Lord’s eyes as he did the same across from her on the stiff divan. 

“Lady Manderly is off the table but I _do_ wish to consider compromise that I’d like to bring to Lord Glover for his consideration. I’m hoping with your vast knowledge and male opinion on the subject that we’ll be able to present a tempting offer,” Sansa stated calmly. Lord Flint stared at her for a moment so she took another sip of tea while the fire popped and spit behind the grate. 

“I..,” He started before he huffed what sounded like a small laugh, shook his head and said, “I guess.” 

“Excellent. This leaves us with three women of marrying age within reason,” Sansa said as she thought of a lot of the widowed women hiding in their spinsterdom from another marriage. She would not force that upon them. 

“Lord Ragen Dormund has a daughter who has just become of marrying age. Pretty little thing but perhaps a bit shy,” Sansa offered and Lord Flint slowly shook his head, brow furrowed on its own as he rejected by explaining, “House Dormund is noble but they haven’t had a House seat since Lord Marlin burned theirs. They are too poor for Lord Glover; it would be seen as charity on behalf of the Glovers and punishment and pity from the Crown.” 

Sansa waved her hand in the air, clearing his objections as she swallowed another sip of tea. 

“Gladys Holt, daughter of Lord Darren Holt, is marriable. Her first husband left her unspoiled; he was stabbed at their wedding feast of all things,” Sansa explained with a hint of gossip and Lord Flint scrunched his face up in disgust. 

“Gods no! The girl resembles an ox, that was probably the chap’s escape route. Not to mention, her Father was born not only a bastard but a bastard of the Night’s Watch. It will be some generations before House Holt is considered truly legitimized and noble,” He all but complained and Sansa clucked her tongue disapprovingly as she poured herself more tea. 

“I’ll assume you speak the truth of the smallfolk and do not intend to directly insult my influence as a monarch,” Sansa told him lightly and Lord Flint’s eyes went wide briefly as he choked down a gulp of tea and held his hand up defensively. 

“Of course, Your Grace. We all obviously must treat them as the nobles they are, which you have legitimized clearly. However, to the _smallfolk_ it would be harder to forget and we’d be remiss to not consider that Lords take into account the opinions of their people,” He replied placatingly as he set his tea down and folded his hands anxiously on his knees. Sansa resisted rolling her eyes and instead nodded before she moved the conversation on. 

“Lady Brenna Tallhart, younger sister of Lord Tallhart,” Sansa listed and Lord Flint sat forward suddenly, shaggy brown hair falling into his eyes as he declared, “That could work. Lady Brenna is Lady Berena’s daughter and Lady Berena was born a Hornwood. The Glovers fostered the Bastard of Hornwood some time ago; their families have been affectionate since. That could be a happy marriage, give you peace of mind.” 

Sansa nodded, acutely surprised at how neatly that did indeed fit. Idly, she resisted the urge to put her hand in her chest pocket to take out the tag bearing the same saying. She placed her tea cup down and put her hands on her lap with excitement. 

“I believe we’ve found our solution, Lord Flint. Please, until I can arrange an exchange with Lord Glover, please keep this between us. I fear panic and -,” Sansa began but Lord Flint rose and cut her off by holding up a hand and making a solemn expression. 

“Nary a soul. Thank you for coming to reason, Your Grace.” 

“Of course,” Sansa said absently as he bowed once more and then made an abrupt departure from the room without looking back. She found herself standing motionless, staring at the door he’d just gone out and her mind weighing and surveying all her options. Lord Liddle and Lord Flint were her two biggest advocates for what Sansa had mentally deemed _‘_ _giving him what he wants’_ and she was digesting everything she’d learned. Both of them had roused her suspicions and her conversations with them hadn’t revealed enough of what she wanted. 

There was still so much to do. 

Sansa hung her head between her shoulders, leaning her weight on straight arms off the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. She breathed a lousy exhale in the quiet, squeezing her eyes shut as she thought of Sandor. He’d been so confident in her, she wanted to reach out and grab that surety of herself. She wanted to lay against his chest and feel his arms about her waist again, she wanted to soak him into her skin and use his strength as her own. 

“You’d better be right about this or I’m a crazy person,” Sansa sighed aloud, speaking to the specter she summoned to her minds’ eye. 

Nothing stirred, nothing answered. 

Short on time and temper, Sansa straightened with a scoff and fixed her skirts before she bustled from the room with her cloak slung over her arm. The energy in the corridors was frenetic and people were frenzied as they rushed to and fro. Many were carrying barrels, boxes and buckets filled with various things. Maids scurried along the edges of the halls with items bundled in their arms and guards were marching along checking windows, bolt holes and doors. Many large passageways she passed had been preemptively boarded and reinforced already. It was surprisingly dark in the castle and reminded her of a certain battle on a night long ago. 

Sansa shivered and set off, her cloak billowing around her. Many barely had time to acknowledge her, let alone bow as they passed. Sansa didn’t require it and had long grown tired of that behavior, so many members of her staff simply didn’t. Instead, they looked to her for a greeting. If she gave it, then they would bow but if she simply kept about her day she had made it clear she expected them to keep about theirs. 

When she stepped outside, there was immediate commotion. 

The blacksmith was standing outside his workplace with the woman who were reducing fat and heating oils and they were all paused, looking towards the South Gate. Guards were calling positions and archers ran along the gangplanks above, assuming various positions. Men in armour were popping out of every archway. The door Sansa herself had just exited burst open and a red-cheeked Synna appeared, spotting Sansa and stopping so short that the Queen put out a hand to steady her. 

“What’s gone on?” Sansa asked. 

“Messenger just came to the South Gate, Y‘Grace. Lord Glover means to parley,” Synna babbled breathlessly and Sansa’s head whipped around to glance at the gate fearfully as she whispered, “Fuck! That’s way too early.” 

“Yer Grace?” 

“Find me Lords Liddle and Flint. Quickly! They must ride with me as advisors,” Sansa said urgently in a low voice, causing Synna’s eyes to widen slightly and her shoulders to bunch up with attention. Sansa caught herself as she began to walk away. 

“And Synna – tell them to hide their swords,” Sansa instructed. The woman nodded sharply and then rushed away, nearly running into a guard on her haste back in. Sansa flipped up her hood and picked up her skirts, hustling across the courtyard as fast as possible before people noticed her. She skirted through the shadows and along the walls of the courtyard. Instead of going inside, she walked around the Guards Hall and north towards the crypts. There were less people the farther away she got from the courtyard and her pace quickened until she was all but running to the gate. Her cloak filled the stairwell behind her as she descended in a frenzy and she barely had time to notice the temperature drop and waning lights as she flit through the labyrinthine underground. 

The workers could be heard before she even stepped into the hall. There were lit torches everywhere and it was considerably warmer in here. A massive mound of dirt had appeared in the middle of the hall beside a pile of slimy, shiny looking wood. Thick, viscous drops of cooled fat dripped down the sides. 

Daegen Percy noticed her first as he crawled out of the hole. His nicely pressed jacket was off and his white undershirt was smeared heavily with dirt and mud. His spectacles were also covered in mud and he wiped them with grimy hands as he got to his feet. 

“Your Grace! We’re well on track! Ahead of schedule, I dare say!” He crowed happily until he caught sight of her face. The pride on his started to fade when he saw how sallow and panicked she appeared as Sansa rushed forward. 

“Is it done?” She demanded breathlessly, winded from the tight bodice of her dress and her run down into the crypts. 

“Another hour and yes,” Percy answered confidently. Sansa made an unintended noise of distress, looking from the hole to the stacked wood. She made a decision in an instant and said a brief prayer before she commanded, “It’s going to have to do. Fit of much of that in as you can, quickly.” 

“...You want the wood to go in the hole,” Percy said with growing realization and Sansa nodded briskly. 

“Once it’s all in,” Sansa said as she turned towards the exit, “light it.” 

“Light it,” He repeated dully. 

“Once its lit, get everyone out,” Sansa called over her shoulder. When he didn’t answer she stopped by the door and turned to fix him with an intent look. He was gazing at the hole with sadness. 

“Percy,” She called until he looked back at her and she raised her eyebrows as she emphasized, “once it is lit, get _everyone out."_

She pinned him with her gaze until he nodded, terse but amenable. 

With that, she was gone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm late today but it's before midnight where I am so TECHNICALLY I'm on schedule.
> 
> \- who is the most sus  
> \- are we onto her plan yet?  
> \- it's not porny but i'm doing my best to make it ~ i n t e r e s t i n g ~
> 
> thoughts?


	5. The Understanding

The Lords were saddled when she finally arrived back at the Gate. 

Lord Liddle looked distinctly queasy upon his palomino rouncey, who stamped irritably at how rigidly he sat, reins clutched tightly in his lap with his lips thinned. He’d changed into a finer cloak that was a deep red, edged with what appeared to be velvet. 

Lord Flint had just thrown a leg over a beautiful bay courser, which gleamed almost as red as fallen leaves in the late afternoon sun. The young Lord looked less sick than his counterpart - more determined - as he sat securely upon a mount that had seen more battle than he. 

“Where is Joshen?” Sansa asked a nearby guard, who pointed behind her with murmured formalities. Sansa turned to breathe a sigh of relief as she hastened towards her own beast, led by the horse master's son. 

Her warhorse was larger than the others; meaner, as well. He was a destrier in almost every sense of the word from his size and breadth, to the shorter back and meanly muscled haunches. From birth, he’d been trained by different riders, horse masters, jousters and fighters to bring him to the glory he was now. He was known for mouthing, nipping and biting everyone _except_ for Sansa, who snuck him pieces of apple when no one was looking in apology for her poor riding skills. She’d improved over the years in desperation to be able to ride him confidently. 

Sansa had found Stranger before they’d located Sandor’s body. That had been the first sign of confirmation that he had perished. Sansa had adopted, cherished and bred the beast despite his overall hatred of everyone and everything for the rest of his life. She’d chosen a name for his offspring that she’d hoped would irritate Sandor in his grave. 

“Hello Ser,” Sansa greeted lovingly as she reached up to pat his great, curved neck. He snorted in reply, dark eyes watching the others warily. Two grooms swarmed them whilst checking the straps and buckles of her saddle. Bran the Broken had sent it, fascinated as he was with gear that was designed to assist people; Dornish in make, it featured two sprouted pommels to the side for her to brace with her thighs. Sansa was one of the few ladies in Westeros who could ride and jump confidently with her troops while sitting side-saddle. As a child she’d learned to ride aside, however without the special saddle she had now it was considerably more dangerous and the horse was always led. Satisfied, one of the grooms stooped low and Sansa delicately put her foot into his cupped hands. She gave a great hop and with the power from the groom’s hands she was suddenly up in the saddle, pulling the material of her riding skirts loose around her thighs. Wordlessly, she ensured her circlet was centered on her head before she gathered the reins and moved between the two Lords. 

She smiled reassuringly at all around them. The folk, maids and guards all gathered to see them out. One of the little girls of the washwomen was crying, clinging to her mother’s skirts to hide her red cheeks. Everyone else looked somber and wary, dark circles under their eyes and faces pale with anxiety. Face hardening into a gentle smile that would remain painfully affixed, Sansa inhaled through her nose and signaled for the Gate. A shout from inside announced the rumble of chains clattering and wood cogs grinding loudly against one another. Slowly, light bit through the fanged shadows under the gate as it lifted, pulling the long spokes on the bottom out of the muck. As the gate pulled up, gold light climbed the legs of the horses and then their riders, sliding up their torsos until they squinted against its brightness. 

Shadows were cast off the wolf shaved into the hair on Ser’s rear loin; it appeared to snap its jaws as Sansa urged them forwards. 

The gate groaned and clanked its way closed as soon as they passed through it. They rode forwards and cut right, along the base of the mammoth walls, with Sansa in the lead of the trio and the two Lords nervously exchanging looks from her sides. Once they had paced almost the length of the castle, they turned outwards across the open tundra. 

As they rode towards the cacophony of tents and the jagged almost-completed wooden tower, a garrison of men were streaming out of the camp. 

“Doesn’t look very diplomatic,” Sansa commented aloud as she cast a sardonic look over her shoulder at Liddle, who glared at the advancing group. Lord Flint pursed his lips and lowered his brow but said nothing as they continued onwards, hooves kicking up thick clumps of mud. 

The camp was closer than Winterfell was by the time the two groups met up and slowed their horses to a stand, the animals tossing their heads and jockeying nervously. Flint and Liddle kept close to her sides but Sansa did her best to appear unbothered, even as she forced herself to not to look fearfully at the siege tower. It looked much bigger the closer she got. 

Lord Glover rode at the forefront, wearing the same shiny armour that he’d worn to treat with Sansa originally. Four soldiers, all considerably larger than he was, rode at his back with one carrying a large banner with his sigil on it. Sansa had long since done away with banner sigils for small clusters, all her men’s saddles and horses bearing the mark of the wolf but she suddenly felt unofficial without it, which she buried by raising her chin so her circlet gleamed in the sunlight. 

When they reached a stop, his men fanned out slightly behind him as Lord Glover turned himself to the side to address them. 

“Queen Sansa, what an honour to host you at our new camp!” 

Sansa rested her hands and reigns in her lap. She tilted her head and gave him a false smile that didn’t reach her eyes as she said, “The honour is mine, Lord Glover.” 

“What is the occasion?” He asked her confidently and Sansa’s stomach knotted up slightly, her eyes glancing worriedly at the siege tower. He followed her gaze before he grinned at her, showing her his rows of small little teeth that revolted her. It reminded her of stories of goblins, especially as he said, “I’ve heard we’ve had a change of heart.” 

Sansa sniffed as she said, “Had you? I’d say it’s more an understanding of your plight.” 

“I have no plight, Your Grace,” The Lord said arrogantly, the smile rolling around his lips as he shifted his steed’s positioning the other way this time. All of their mounts appeared unnerved – their ears were pricked but their eyes were frantic, they stamped erratically and tossed their tails as their riders held them steady. The soldiers were making a show of attempting to remain stoic whilst controlling their steeds. 

“Lord Flint has been quite vocal otherwise,” Sansa informed him and Lord Glover peered over her shoulder at the man before shaking his head and shrugging as he said, “ _L_ _ord_ Flint is of the age where he understands the nothing of everything perfectly well.” 

Sansa almost agreed with him but chose to keep that to herself as she shifted tactics, again trying not to stare up into the shadow of the tower. 

“My ruling was based on agreements but Lords Liddle and Flint have done their fair share to help bring me to understanding of what is transpiring here,” Sansa began to explain when Lord Glover cut her off, his eyes glowing when she gave him a sharp look. 

“What is transpiring here is you’ve run out of time, Your Grace,” He pressed on her as she glared at him before he gestured around and said, “You’ve built a whole new world – and we’re about ready to move on from the Starks and their antiquated agreements.” 

“Agreements you yourself would make as King, I daresay,” Sansa commented dryly. A guard behind Lord Glover’s back smirked at that and Sansa did her best to look imperious as she delivered it. Lord Glover raised his hands, a brilliant smile lighting his face as he crowed, “Ah, we agree! I will be King. Who knew it was that easy?” 

“I don’t recall saying ‘will’, Mottemaster,” Sansa reminded him shortly and his expression fell into one of murderous impudence. He yanked on the reins so his frothed horse faced her, pacing forwards a few steps. Ser didn’t move but snorted his warning and Sansa felt him transfer his ready weight. She put her hand on his neck to prevent him from rearing in defense as the little Lord leaned forwards in his saddle to hiss, “Those are very confident words coming from someone here to break hers.” 

Sansa raised her eyebrows and took the hand from Ser’s neck to place it mockingly over her breast in shock while she gasped, “Did I come here to break my word? Whomever would have told you _that_?”

He didn’t answer her but his eyes were narrowed and his upper lip had peeled back into a sneer so severe it had morphed into him simply baring his teeth at her like a dog. Sansa urged Ser forwards and he took four aggressive steps that startled Glover’s rouncey backwards. All his guards jostled forwards except for the one, whose eyes narrowed slightly even as he made no move to protect his Lord. Something in Sansa grinned as she confirmed her suspicions and the sense of power swelled under her abdomen, filling her chest as she bore her gaze down onto the Lord in front of her and spoke so that her voice rang clear and steely. 

“I came here to warn you all that you have until daylight tomorrow. Either you accept my terms and disband this insurgency or you sacrifice all here under your adulation to a death even Lannister men are better than. There’s no honour in being run down like rats,” Sansa all but growled at him before she looked at the other men with him, her eyes sparked with rage and a fair dose of bloodlust as the colour in her cheeks rose. She smelled it as her blood thumped victoriously in her ears - hot, acrid soil boiling itself. It smelled like dirty iron from a smithy accident and there was a strange, smoky fog around the camp. 

“Is that what all you proud Northmen are here for? To support someone so arrogant he would have you run over like wild animals because he won’t realize when he’s lost a fight?” She demanded of them angrily. Lord Glover laughed openly in her face but Sansa’s eyes had fallen on the guard who had smirked earlier. He was a big man with dark hair and darker eyes that had widened with a sudden realization. He twisted in his saddle and broke away from the group to turn and look up the tower. 

“Uh - K- _my Lord!_ ” The man shouted but Glover wasn’t hearing it as his expression fixed hatefully on Sansa’s face. 

“I’ve never met a woman as gallingly arrogant as-” Lord Glover’s words were drowned out by a loud, moaning crack that echoed out over the tundra. The horses shrieked and jostled harder as their riders tried to control them – except Ser, who remained exactly where he was with Sansa sitting unmoved atop him. A predatory smile had climbed onto her lips, even as her own advisors yelled in surprise. 

Men yelled from within the camp and their cries were drowned out at another long, ominous crack sounded. The wood tower moaned, the sound deep and pained. There was a huge roaring noise that joined the scream of the unoiled wood bending against its will. The tower visibly wobbled and the roaring got louder. The yells of the men in the camp turned into screams and they began to see soldiers and men pouring out from between the tents, fleeing the camp. 

A noise rent the world that sounded like a giant sitting heavily upon the ground and the tower let out a behemoth groan as it tipped to the side. A large crack sounded and the entire upper half of the leaning tower disconnected, showering the camp below with wood beams and heavy ropes. Then, without further machinations, the rest of the tower fell into a loud clamoring heap. Black smoke began to rise from where the tower had stood and only a few poles, canted violently at an angle, stuck out of the wreck. As the smoke rose, Sansa could easily smell the tang of singed fat and seared fresh wood and her smile widened. Pride surged through her chest and she watched Glover’s soldiers flee the area on horseback and foot, many yelling or assisting their comrades. 

Glover whipped around, his face slack with surprise and Sansa did her best to drop the smile. She arranged her features to attempt to look unsurprised, despite the blush of victory in her cheeks. The solider who had alerted to the tower falling galloped up behind his Lord, his own face equally astonished but looking at her with something akin to awe. 

Her stomach gave a faint lurch as she realized it reminded her of how Sandor looked at her whenever she did something that he hadn’t expected. She buried the smug feeling, not needing its addition to fighting a smile. 

“As I was saying, you can agree to my terms and disband this insurgency or I will have no choice but to have my cavalry smear our countrymen across the plains to make a point,” Sansa informed them brightly, lifting a single hand in the air to indicate Winterfell behind her. There was a long, drawn out silence in which they all started to hear the roar and hiss of the fueled fire consuming the wood of the fallen tower behind them. A piece of beam fell, slamming into the pile loudly to punctuate her declaration. 

Eventually, Lord Glover cleared his throat and gave her a calculating, defeated look as he asked, “What are your terms?” 

“I will not break my word or the betrothal of Lady Tash Manderly to Lord Cerwyn,” Sansa began as she surveyed the men before her. The guard from before caught her eye and held her gaze as he studied her over his Lord’s shoulder. 

“However, we may have found an alternative that would suit you -,” Sansa began but the guard who held her eyes interrupted her as he shook his head. 

“Don’t you dare say it – I know your only other option. Lady Brenna is like a sister to me. A _sister,”_ The guard barked sharply. Both of Sansa’s advisors craned their necks behind her. 

“Ah, finally. Lord Glover,” Sansa declared with amusement in her voice. Lord Flint cursed in surprise behind her. The real Lord Glover motioned the man who’d been speaking for him back as he surged forwards, eyes still locked with Sansa’s as he drew up to her. 

“This was a desperate bid, I know; I don’t have another choice. There are scant few women ready, able or willing to marry a man of marching age. You’re asking me to wed and bed a girl who I taught to ride a horse, I – You Grace, I don’t want your crown. Truly, despite everything here. I needed to make a point about how many of us will go to waste. I want to have a future, something you overlooked,” He told her sharply, the emotion on his face a painting of hopelessness. 

Sansa’s breath had stilled in her lungs as he spoke; the sun had fallen across his face similarly to how the sun had fallen across Sandor’s on the balcony. She saw both that moment and this at the same time and suddenly understood the flash of Sandor’s unburned face in her mind's eye. The wind picked up, blowing smoke from the fire and bits of plant life everywhere. Understanding blew through her just as the breeze blew through their group. The reason for the march on Winterfell, the desperation and understanding amongst the other Houses meaning this was a widespread sentiment in the face of Sansa’s own refusal to marry. Suddenly, the pressure she withstood made a great deal more sense in more than just an attempt to occupy her or her womb. It was as if a branch of understanding – the smallfolk, Sansa’s oversight and stubbornness, the siege tower, Sandor’s words before he pulled her to him – smacked her upside the head. 

_“Being alone isn’t your future, Sansa._ ” 

Suddenly, it all made sense. She suddenly changed her plan, acting the on surety of her impulse. 

“No, Lord Glover, I offer you my hand in marriage – not as King, but as Lord of your land and Prince of the North,” Sansa countered boldly, canting her head as she attempted to hide that she had surprised herself. Lord Glover’s dark eyes were the warm colour of a Weirwood tree in the sun, widened as they were while he gaped at her. 

Suddenly, she blushed and shrugged as she admitted, “I enjoyed your effrontery, it would seem.” 

There was a long silence as the large man looked back at her before he shook his head and let out a short, confused laugh. Sansa grinned at him and that made him laugh harder, under he was leaning on his pommel. 

“Oh, I also need you to tell me which of these two betrayed me,” Sansa added and gestured to the two men behind her, who were both wearing surprised but glad smiles. As soon as they heard her words, their happiness quickly fell off their faces. 

“Your Grace?” Lord Flint started to question before Lord Glover shrugged and pointed a large finger at Lord Liddle and said, “His page is like a snake that can show up in the black of night.” 

“You bastard!” Lord Flint hissed at Liddle in outrage. 

There was a slight pause in which Lord Liddle glared between everyone before he snapped his reins and his horse surged into an all-out run, charging through the crowd and setting off at breakneck speed across the tundra. Sansa watched him go before she glanced at Lord Flint, whose cheeks had mottled with rage. He met her gaze with outright question in his. 

“Would you collect him?” Sansa asked and Lord Flint had taken off after his former peer before she finished saying, “Gently, please, thank-you.” 

Lord Glover turned in his seat and gestured at his men as he said, “You too, go bring him.” 

When the others peeled away and gave chase to Liddle, Sansa noticed that the armoured man who’d identified himself as Lord Glover earlier accompanied them. 

“Obviously I can’t fully punish him for betraying me to someone I have offered marriage but he’ll have to be dealt with regardless. May I ask, why the decoy?” She asked conversationally as Glover matched his horse with Ser, who rigidly and obstinately kept his distance from the other beast. 

“I am a big man, Your Grace, I got accused of intimidation a lot. My diplomatic success is normally higher with Kerban doing the talking for me,” He explained with a large dose of apology in his voice as he added, “I wasn’t supervising the talks this time and that was ill-advised. I was attending the tower that you somehow managed to destroy.” 

“Well,” Sansa said tartly, “he certainly didn’t rate well diplomatically with _me_.” 

Glover laughed, a large booming sound that he capped off with, “My apologies, Your Grace.” 

As much as he could look like Sandor in size and likeness, he didn’t sound or act nearly as gruff. Instead, he seemed completely upbeat and amused despite his recent military failure. His laugh was carefree and almost contagious even as they ambled back towards Winterfell. 

“Well? What say you to my terms?” Sansa asked him amicably as they approached the walls. 

“Of disbandment and marriage?” 

“Indeed.” 

“I don’t feel I have much of a choice, bit of a hostage in this somehow. So, aye. I agree,” Lord Glover chuckled with bewilderment as their horses jostled them faster up the slope. 

“You’re surprised I toppled your tower,” Sansa observed and he swore, sent her an apologetic look and laughed as he declared, “Surprised is an understatement, Your Grace. I’m surprised you’re far more cunning than I think anyone imagined you to be and twice more staggering. I expected death as punishment for failure not...” 

“Marriage?” Sansa offered with a sudden laugh of her own. Her fingertips fizzed like she’d downed a bunch of wine on an empty and eager stomach. 

“May I ask how you brought it down?” 

Sansa gave him a side eyed look, a smile playing about her mouth despite the open suspicion. He offered her a lopsided grin in return as he explained, “For our future mutual interests, as it would seem.” 

“Towers weren’t rounded to begin with – it takes such work and excessive materials, I’m sure you found,” Sansa explained and he nodded in agreement when she inclined her head towards his so she continued confidently, fondly recounting her Father’s lecture. 

“So, it was eventually known that if you dug underneath the edge of a stone or wood tower and build a great fire, it would destabilize the ground underneath and cause collapse,” Sansa explained and Lord Glover swore with colourful astonishment before she added, “I daresay we didn’t succeed in being exactly _under_ your little contraption, but it was far enough under a corner to work out.” 

“Dug underneath though?” He asked with amazement as they trotted up to a gate that was raising itself, yells and cheers could be heard from the inside. 

“Winterfell is full of surprises,” Sansa offered by way of explanation and his dark eyes caught hers and for a moment, glittered in a way that made her stomach flip like she was a young girl. 

“As are you, my Queen,” He told her seriously and she felt the red in her cheeks darken. The gate clanged and groaned as it hauled itself up towards the gatehouse. 

“I will say, this arrangement, I hope it will give many people peace of mind. I know you’re a fan of hope,” Lord Glover said as he reached out towards her. Instinctively, Sansa offered him her hand that he took and graciously kissed. She suddenly thought of the small tag in her pocket, a bent and dirty scrap bearing Maester Luwin’s writing and she fought the tears pricking at her eyes as she nodded. 

She glanced behind them to see the guards and Lord Flint escorting a harried and restrained Lord Liddle back to the castle. Internally, she clucked her tongue at how she would have to navigate and handle this entanglement, just as she’d have to handle the Houses that had supported the rebellion – just as she’d have to handle her interest in Lord Glover’s resemblance to a long dead man buried in the beloved part of her heart. 

Sansa urged Ser forwards and together with her new betrothed passed through the gate into the courtyard of Winterfell. A well of sadness built in her chest as they passed smiling faces and eager grins and confused murmurs as the men followed them in. 

_“You said it yourself. The lone wolf dies.”_

She took a deep breath and was helped down from the horse, embracing the women who rushed to assist her and placate their deluge of questions and demands. She hurriedly explained as best she could, as well as heard their elated recounts of the events they’d witnessed from the walls, and then was forced to turn and search out her new betrothed. A distinct and familiar step sounded behind her, and Sansa was thrown into the memorized feeling of Sandor stepping up behind her. When she turned to look up into Daryn Glover’s face, her chest positively hurt with his resemblance to the burned Clegane, merely without the violence to his face. It hurt more when he looked back at her and his familiar yet unfamiliar visage twisted into one of confused concern; this Lord was still yet younger than Sandor had been when she lost him. Sansa forced herself to smile and step aside and turned to yell over the crowd, who quickly hushed themselves. She explained their agreement, acknowledging it strange but noting that it was the desire of many and Sansa had always been one to lead by example. 

There was a brief silence in which she was surrounded by shocked, incredulous and stunned faces before more and more smiles started to break out. A wind kicked up and it brought a sharp breeze that carried a scent Sansa hadn’t smelled in many years – the smell of armour oil, Dornish red and male skin. For a moment, as laughter and clapping started breaking out around her, she knew Sandor was there with her. He was amused she’d pulled it off; figured it out and done as he’d told her and she could feel it in her chest. She understood she’d made the right decision as Lord Glover swept her hand to his mouth and placed a grandiose kiss on it for the delight of the people surrounding them. She didn’t know if the natural bubble of reservation in her stomach was her natural suspicion of his good-natured enthusiasm or if she was exceedingly wary of experiencing feelings for him simply because of his resemblance to Sandor. 

After all, her logical mind whispered, this solved many things. 

This solved issues for Lord Glover, soothed anxieties of the smallfolk, it gave her the future Sandor had intended for her with his death, ensured his duty of her happiness was all but fulfilled, maintained the heartline of Winterfell to a smug Weirwood tree and subverted all out rebellion and war. 

For whom was this peace of mind truly for? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> henlo
> 
> \- i'm aware sansa is missing a riding cane if she's side saddle but it doesn't fit my aesthetic so pls let it go for now thnx  
> \- cleanup details can be up to your imagination  
> \- remember what i said about playing it fast and loose with distances, depths and timing ok? ok. 
> 
> my life got very COVID busy for a bit at work and i basically forgot i had a WIP going on the internet because i get real in my head. anyways, this is the final chapter that should have been up two weeks ago. i know this fic wasn't everyone's cup of tea but if you enjoyed it, thanks for sticking around. 
> 
> cheers 
> 
> xx


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